


The Sweet Turnip

by Mallorn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Brothels, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prostitution, Smut, obligatory bath scene, old wolves need love too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24984283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallorn/pseuds/Mallorn
Summary: There’s a brothel at the foot of the mountains that Vesemir likes to frequent, with a harlot who waits for him every spring with equal measures of excitement and trepidation, and a lot more affection than a paid lover should.
Relationships: Vesemir (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s), Vesemir (The Witcher)/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	The Sweet Turnip

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in this fandom, inspired by the show, as well as a multitude of splendid fics I’ve been bingeing on the last couple of months. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think!
> 
> My sincerest thanks to dear friend Cassandra1 for hunting down wayward prepositions and weeding out awkward phrases – any remaining linguistic oddities are my own.

At the sound of heavy boots, everyone’s eyes turn towards the door. It’s still early in the evening, still plenty of time to make a good profit from the visitor about to enter, or some of the others who will come. The wares you and your guild sisters have to offer are in constant demand.

As the man enters, heavy footfalls turn to steps as silent as a wild creature’s, as if he’s decided that he’s announced his arrival enough by now, given everyone plenty of opportunity to prepare. To arm themselves, or to hide. There’s no need for him to be loud now. He doesn’t speak at once, just stands by the entrance, as if he isn’t sure whether he’s allowed in, or not. Tall of stature, if a little hunched, grey of hair and sinister of face, still carrying the twin swords of his trade, even if rumour says the keeper of Kaer Morhen seldom accepts contracts nowadays.

Your breath catches at the sight of him, with joy and fulfilled hope. One winter will be his last, one spring he’ll be too weak to come down from the mountains. Now, he looks as strong as ever, broad-shouldered but lithe and long-legged. He keeps his hair at shoulder length over the winter, taking less care of it than of his beard. Prominent cheekbones frame a thin nose and sharp eyes, the colour of an owl’s. Many say witchers’ eyes are strange, fey, but they dilate in passion like any ordinary mortal’s.

His gaze falls on you and you smile. If he sees, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he speaks to the room:

“Will I be serviced at this establishment?”

He’s looking straight ahead, everything about his expression saying he’s steeling himself for inevitable rejection. Like they all are. Every time it hurts just as badly to see it. Witchers should be lauded for their work, for their sacrifice and bravery and unyielding service to a society that shuns them. It is a pleasure to do business with them; they know the value of money.

Madam Griselda comes to his aid, rushing towards him as fast as her roundness allows her, fluttering her hands all around him.

“Vesemir! Don’t be silly, of course you will! We’re happy to have you!”

There’s not one whore at the Sweet Turnip who wouldn’t service a witcher. Some more gladly than others, more than a few secretly dreading that first week in spring when they come down the mountain, starved of female company. They’re especially boisterous then, as stiff with sap as the birches, and just as ready to burst as the willow’s fat buds. It quickly becomes overwhelming, yet these gruff men are gentle giants. Never has anyone here undergone rougher treatment from a witcher than was agreed to, and mutually enjoyed. You’re all sore afterwards, of course, having taken turns to pour attention over those in need. It’s a good soreness, one that stems from honest work.

Vesemir’s arrival isn’t entirely unexpected. Over the summer, he comes down the mountain a couple of times, for supplies, as he says. His must be a lonely existence, caring for an empty keep, guarding the ruins of his own life and that of his order. His dedication alone deserves respect. Rumour says he’s as old as the town below the mountain, or almost. Witcher longevity is so strange. Vesemir clearly has some features of an old man; his stature isn’t as straight as the others’, and there’s more sinew than muscles to his body these days. His strength is legendary still, his mop of grey hair abundant enough to earn the envy of much younger men. It’s difficult to imagine what his life is like now, and what it was. He doesn’t speak much, and never about himself.

“Have a seat, dear,” the madam continues. “Rose, an ale for the gentleman while he makes up his mind!”

He accepts the tankard with a slight bow, characteristic of his old-fashioned politeness.

The madam doesn’t leave his side. “Your boys came by last week,” she tells him.

“Did they behave?”

“Of course, of course, models of courtesy all of them! Even Lambert,” she adds with a secretive half-whisper. “You’ve taught them well. My girls were so happy.”

“They’re good lads.”

“That they are. Like my girls. Now, who will it be tonight?”

He takes a swig, letting the drink rinse his palate.

“You already know.”

“Oh no, I would never presume to guess a gentleman’s mood.” She tilts her head. “Though in this case I believe I do know.”

You’re on your feet the moment she beckons to you.

* * *

Vesemir likes tits. He can have you just sitting on his lap for ages, his nose buried in your cleavage, rough cheeks rubbing against soft mounds, lips lavishing little kisses on them. He’s never overly lewd in public, taking his pleasure unobtrusively until you cannot help but crush his head to your chest. His hardness gradually swells underneath you, the bulge becoming irresistible to press against, to grind down on. It’s too early. He grunts a warning, wanting nothing of it, not yet. His hands on your hips hold you in place – large, bony, all sinew and raised veins beneath rugged skin. You whine; you’re so very wet for him already, so prepared to show him just how eager you are to please him, and now. His eyes are kind, yet there’s no mercy in them. His hands remain steady.

Then finally, the parlour is empty enough for his taste. That is when he stares at you and nods. He lets you remove his armour and run your hands down his torso, down the rough working shirt, impeccably clean, but worn thin and mended so many times it seems it could disintegrate under your fingers. His breeches are in better shape, but tied with a simple rope.

He springs forth without a sound, only a slight tremor betrays his pleasure. Your skirt is already bunched up around your legs and it takes very little to lift it just enough as you support your knees against the bench so when you sink down again, guided by his hands, it is on that lovely cock.

“My witcher,” you praise him, “so thick and long, so perfect!” He smiles at that, briefly, thinly. The lie is in the first part. Never will he belong to you, nor to anyone else. You love him for continuing to indulge you in this fantasy.

You press your cheek against his hair, clinging to his shoulders as he fills you repeatedly. You have your share of men daily, yet this, he, is special. Those calloused hands on your hips, handling you as if you weighed no more than a chicken, the mouth kissing your breasts reverently, his scent of pine and thyme. He coaxes the first orgasm from you with little effort, staring into your eyes as he flicks his thumb over your clit. You bite your lip, clenching around him, causing him to buck up into you with increasing ferocity, until he stops with a grunt. He’s still hard; it’s merely time for a change in position.

“Would you, ah, would like a room, sir?” you ask, reluctantly letting him slip out of you. He should have paid for one already, followed you there instead of already availing himself of your service already here in the parlour. That Madam Griselda lets him is a sign of the trust he’s earned in the Sweet Turnip. “Or would you prefer to bend me over a table?”

“I don’t see why I can’t have both.”

You giggle at that, and at the rakish look he gives you as he pointedly tucks himself back into his breeches. Smoothing your skirts, you ease off his lap, allowing him to stand. With a short nod, he offers you his elbow, as if you were a lady. You take it, clinging to his arm with both hands. With the other, he reaches into his pocket and produces a pouch, fat with coin. The sound it makes as it hits the table surface makes the madam’s eyes widen.

“It’s too much,” you hiss. “Even for the whole night and with a bath, it’s still too much!”

Your customers’ finances are not your business, but with Vesemir the need to be honest is stronger than your trade’s code. The old witcher clearly doesn’t have a crown to spare; he ought to care better for how he spends.

“Tell me that tomorrow,” he says with a wink and heads for the staircase.

* * *

This tub has nothing on the springs of Kaer Morhen, Vesemir muses, as he watches her fetch various herbs to drizzle into the water, as if he were an ingredient in tonight’s soup. Witchers need no such fripperies, nor do they need to have their scarred bodies treated with the care she gives to his every limb. He indulges her, that’s all. Lets her dote on him. It makes her lazy and pliant, and her body is gradually becoming slippery with fragrant soap everywhere he manages to reach. Her tits and ass quiver with every movement as she tries to dodge his hands, apparently not done with washing him yet. He’s not complaining; her meticulous attention is a small thing to endure.

“Get in,” he barks, with no end in sight. Watching her is not a sight that soon tires him, but it’s much inferior to touching her, feeling her around him. Her hands in his hair are but a start.

“Soon, sir,” she responds, clearly thinking a show of respect will get him where she wants. Damned wench!

When she’s satisfied with his hair, she joins him. She dangles her assets in his face, and he has no choice but to lick them clean. Her own scent is much preferable to the herbs. Soup is what it is!

“Turn around,” he whispers in her ear. She is fast. Arching her back already, pushing her plump backside towards him as she steadies herself by gripping the edge of the tub. Soapy water runs down her flanks, draws his gaze to her hips and thighs. The fresh wetness glistening between her legs isn’t only the water’s doing.

He reaches a hand between, fingertips barely grazing, and she moans. So ripe and ready for him again. She clenches around his digits, as if trying to keep them inside her.

“Vesemir! Please!”

“I’ll give you something else,” he tells her, and she trembles with want. It’s been decades since anyone else was so eager for him. He doesn’t know what to do with the warmth in his chest.

The sound she makes as he slides his cock into her is worth her fee alone. She knows better than to push back, but the way she braces as he starts to thrust, holding herself up, allowing him to pound into her as hard as he pleases, moaning with each slap of his thighs against hers –

He sinks almost into a trance, surfacing only when her whimpers become shrill. Oh. He stills. The water is cold. Igni takes care of that, and a kiss between her shoulder blades makes her purr anew. Her back is warm still, soft against his chin. The tiny hairs at the nape of her neck tease his lips.

“A little more?” he asks, mentally chiding himself. After all, he’s paid for this, he needn’t ask.

“As much as you want.”

She is clearly still turned on, but there are signs of exhaustion in her voice as well. He sits back, pulling her with him until she has to put her hands on the bottom of the tub, standing on all fours. That should take the strain off her knees.

Handfuls of supple flesh in his hands, he leans forward again, beginning to take her slowly, making each stroke count, until her voice becomes desperate and he feels that ache in his balls that makes him drive into her again, hard and fast. Her release triggers his own, washes over him, drowning him like rivulets soaking parched earth and he laughs. She does, too, and that warmth and softness inside of him is unbearable.

He rises abruptly.

* * *

Out of the bath, wearing nothing but his medallion, Vesemir looks vulnerable. Hair and beard flattened against his skull and throat like the pelt of a drenched cat, shoulders too broad for his thinning old-man frame, feet gnarled from too many years on the road. And the scars, matching the rips of so many shirts. That is the part you’ll never get used to. You want to kiss each and every one of them, you want to show him you truly wish to understand what lies beneath them, yet you do neither. The bathing is enough; he doesn’t like being fussed over.

Instead, when he sits on the bed, you stand between his legs. His nose fits perfectly between your breasts, your backside in his palms. You comb your fingers through his hair as he breathes, slowly. His arms around you, strong, secure. He’d let go in the blink of an eye if you said so, and that thought makes you press yourself harder against him.

His mouth begins to wander, gently but insistently, until he catches a nipple. With him, there’s no need to brace – he softly rolls it between his lips, wetting it with the tip of his tongue, closing his eyes as he savours it. His hand catches its twin, his palm teasing as his other hand runs up your inner thigh. Ah, yes, you want him again already.

There’s a particularly prominent scar near his groin, wide and raised, begging for your fingertip to trace it. He nods, allowing it. It’s hard to imagine what monster made it; in your nightmares it’s always a griffin. He cheated death that time, conquered it, numerous times. He will do so again.

“On the bed, on your back,” he rumbles, his voice thick. “Now.”

A pillow under your backside raises your hips to his satisfaction. His tongue is relentless, plundering you so thoroughly you hardly notice when he fingers join it and suddenly, he is everywhere and you’re floating, flying, soaring –

Afterwards he raises his head, wipes his mouth and comes up for a kiss, nearly folding you in two. This, tasting yourself on him, is your secret vice, and he knows it. You’re more than ready to welcome him between your legs again, relishing the slowness with which he slides into you. The expression on his face as he does it is almost as good as it feels. Tension at first, knitted brows and lip curled in concentration – going slow is not really what he wants, but he does it anyhow, continues to feed you that thick cock so slowly it makes you gasp each time he withdraws and starts anew – and then, gradually letting go, jaws becoming slack, gaze losing focus – please please please dearest harder now and yes yes yes – eyes squeezed shut and he growls.

Sleep finds you quickly.

* * *

His beard tickles. That is the first thing you become aware of in the morning. His arm around your waist comes next, the fingers cupping your breast, gently but relentlessly teasing your nipple as he kisses your neck. You arch into him with a yawn, pressing your backside against his groin. Only then does he begin to rut against you.

“Again? Insatiable old man,” you say lovingly as you wipe the sleepiness from your eyes. When it’s him, this is the best way to wake up. There’s no need for the usual tricks to get you into the mood.

He grunts. “You know I’m an early riser. I like to get value for my coin.”

“Of course, sir,” you tell him, allowing him to keep his pride. He’s spent too many nights in your bed for a morning fuck to just be a matter of guarding his investment. Your hand curl around him, hot and thick. The impulse to taste him overwhelms you.

Your eyes dart to his, over your shoulder. “May I?”

“Aye,” he grunts, and mutters, “As long as you get me off, I don’t care how you do it.”

His cock stands proudly from a nest of hair, brushing against his belly. The tip is already glistening, salty against your tongue as you taste it. There’s more of him than you can comfortably reach; this part is always a stretch but you’re proud to show him you can do it. He always insists it isn’t necessary, but then makes the most interesting sounds. Who would have guessed a grizzled old witcher like Vesemir could squeak?

* * *

“It’s nice lying here like this,” you tell him when you wake up next. He doesn’t answer, just leans into your palm. His nose puffs out hot breath against your skin; he must never know how endearing he looks like that. “I dream sometimes,” you continue, “of visiting you in your castle.”

“It’s a keep,” he mutters, “in ruins.”

“Still, it’s yours. You rule there. Doesn’t that make you a lord, at least?”

“I’m not, and you know it.”

“You’re the noblest man I know, that’s quite enough for me.”

He doesn’t answer that, but his lips catch your hand, pulling it between his teeth. He bites down and growls. You smile. “We could have so many more mornings like this one.”

“The trail would kill you. You’d perish before you come a quarter of the way.”

“I know. But it’s a dream, so you’ll rescue me, and then –”

This is usually as long as the dream lasts before it dissolves. Any more than that is too much for your imagination, any attempt to see yourself with him there, in his home, dissolves like morning mist in the sun. And still, it’s something you hold on to, replaying it in your head whenever you need a break from reality. When it’s been too long, when anxiety tells you that he’s too old to come down from the mountain this spring, and time and everyday life has diluted your memories.

“Do we fuck?” His interruption is gruff but laced with interest. The laugh lines around his eyes cut right through your melancholy. He’s here, now.

“Of course,” you tell him and smile. “A lot. But it’s not the most important part.” You stroke his hair, his cheek pressed to your bosom.

He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t, but his heart seems to beat a little faster.

* * *

Eventually, he has to go. Time’s up, you’ve chores to take care of, errands to run and then, someone else to serve. The madam has explicitly forbidden all of you to dawdle by the door with departing clients – a rule that isn’t usually this hard to follow. After all, it’s not as if you’re saying farewell to a sweetheart.

“I’m already looking forward to the next time,” you tell him in earnest, hoping it’s true that witchers can smell a lie.

“You’ll regret that,” he mutters. “May be sooner than you think. I paid for two nights.”

“Oh, Vesemir!”

“The younglings think I shouldn’t go back the same day as I do my errands.” He’s clearly unhappy about that, spitting the words in challenge. “It’s not how it used to be done,” he adds, and sighs. “I have to indulge them, of course.”

You smile and pretend not to see the light in his eyes.


End file.
